Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. She looked at her flattened belly. It was then, I am sure, empty. “You certainly are. I’m sorry. ” “Yet you are very young. ” He seemed bored. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. It may be well, therefore, before proceeding farther, to describe it more minutely. A nine days’ wonder is soon forgotten.
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